Maybe, Someday
by tgrfan23
Summary: Tag to episode 2x08, His Red Right Hand. At Sam Bosco's funeral, the team ponders the black cloud that Red John has left over their lives.


A/N: We didn't get to see Bosco's funeral, so I thought I'd take a crack at what our team might have been feeling, watching one of their own be buried. Lyrics in italics are from Rob Thomas' new single, Someday.

* * *

_You can go_

_You can start all over again_

_You can try to find a way to make another day go by_

_You can hide_

_Hold all your feelings inside_

_You can try to carry on when all you wanna do is cry_

Lisbon was having a difficult time keeping herself together as the bagpipers approached the burial site. She'd been to the funerals of law enforcement colleagues before, and nothing could ever truly prepare you for burying someone killed in the line of duty. This … this was something else altogether. This was the funeral she'd never expected to attend. Somewhere in the back of her psyche, a much younger Teresa Lisbon lurked; the rookie cop who'd looked up to Sam Bosco as a partner, a mentor, and eventually as the big brother she'd never had. The one man she'd trusted above all else to have her back if she needed him – anytime, anywhere, no questions asked. Where did that leave her now?

* * *

_Maybe someday_

_we'll figure all this out_

_Try to put an end to all our doubt_

_Try to find a way to make things better now_

Cho's expression was, as always, a mask of inscrutability. Every day before he walked out the door, this was the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place. He wasn't oblivious to the snickers and mocking behind his back; he heard people whistle the tune to Dragnet as he walked by, or derisively refer to him as "Joe Friday" when they thought he wasn't listening. It all rolled off his back. If he'd learned anything from his stint in the military, it was that emotions had no business involving themselves in his work every day. So he kept a carefully constructed facade on the surface. Underneath, however – that was a different story. As he watched the pallbearers – colleagues of Bosco's from San Francisco PD – bring his casket to the gravesite, a mixture of emotions began to set in. Anger: at himself for not catching on to Rebecca's machinations sooner; at Red John, that he could so easily exploit psychologically defenseless people like Rebecca; at Rebecca herself, for betraying her boss and the Bureau; and lastly, if he was begin completely honest, at Patrick Jane. Cho's practical side acknowledged the usefulness of Jane's skills as an asset; he made their professional lives easier. He helped close cases. Cho found great satisfaction in that knowledge. Whenever things got squirrelly, he reminded himself of this information.

_Jane closes cases. Closing cases is a good thing_. That was **before.**

Now, four men were dead. Four good cops. Good cops who shouldn't have had to die because they had the bad luck to cross paths with Patrick Jane.

How many more before the death toll became unacceptable? He did not have an answer for that.

* * *

_Maybe someday_

_We'll live our lives out loud_

_We'll be better off somehow_

_Someday_

Rigsby and Van Pelt were purposely sitting on opposite ends of the row of chairs, their gazes seemingly far away, but in reality focused on the same thing. Bosco's wife, rendered a widow; his two children, left without their father. All three, seated facing his casket, a family still in shock, but trying to stay strong for each other, until they could go home and grieve in private.

Rigsby suddenly wished he'd ignored their unspoken agreement to keep their distance. He wanted to be right there next to her, holding her hand, being a comforting presence, damn the consequences. They'd already ducked one close call during the Mia Westlake case; what if the next time they weren't so lucky? If they hadn't been required to go back to work after the service, he would march right up to her and take her home – his place, her place, it didn't really matter – and just stay there, hiding from the world for just one day. Just being themselves, Wayne and Grace, two people who cared deeply for each other, for one day.

Van Pelt's thoughts tracked back to one week ago. Seven days. Amazing how quickly one's worldview could go pear-shaped in such a short time. Seven days ago, she'd let Rigsby into her home, into her bed, and into her life for good. There was no turning back from that decision. He'd worked his way into her heart, slowly but surely. Sometimes awkwardly, sometimes carefully, but he was there, nonetheless. What if that was her, sitting in Mandy Bosco's place? Would it be worse if they never even got to have that chance; a chance to be together, to build a life together?

Red John had already proven he could get to anyone, or anything he wanted. What if one of them was next?

* * *

Virgil Minelli stood quietly in the shade of an oak tree, a good hundred yards or so away from the crowd at the funeral service. He was deliberately staying out of sight. He'd made a difficult, yet necessary decision this morning; the ink had been dry barely ten minutes on his resignation paperwork before he'd left the office to come to the funeral. There would be no fanfare; no party, no cake, no gold watch. Four agents had died under his watch; he would not allow a celebration of his tenure to occur while four families grieved. Worse yet, he did not envy having to inform Teresa Lisbon of his departure. He could not stay and watch as this team he'd watched her build - three subordinates who she managed like a mother hen, a group that he knew she considered family – he could not watch their inevitable implosion under the pressure that was Red John. Not when he was powerless to stop it. So it was time to walk away.

_So maybe we should _

_start all over_

_start all over again_


End file.
